


You taught me the courage of stars before you left

by CabiriaMinerva



Series: Miracles and wonders [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Idiots in Love, Multi, Peaches and Plums (The Magicians), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Proof of Concept (The Magicians), Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva
Summary: Eliot's early Christmas gift has been a (beautiful, heartbreaking) mess of a human landing on the woolly rug at the foot of his bed. But to bring Quentin fully, truly back, he must stick to his word and be braver, just as Q taught him.
Relationships: Alice Quinn & Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Miracles and wonders [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714051
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> With shortness of breath, I'll explain the infinite  
> How rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist
> 
> Sleeping at Last, Saturn

**Then**

_«Quentin?»_

_Two hazel eyes peeped out at him from beneath long, floppy, white hair._

  
  


**Now**

They don't jump off the bed right away, waiting instead for the few moments it takes for the realisation to slowly down on them. Alice is tense against Eliot's side, and he really cannot blame her.

There, on that stupid, woolly rug that Eliot hasn't thrown out yet just because he is constantly too exhausted even to care about aesthetics, lies Quentin.

Quentin.

_Quentin_.

«Quentin?» he repeats, his voice trembling now that the shock has hit him completely. No, that cannot be. This is impossible. He turns to Alice, whose eyes are wide open. Of course she is as stunned as he is: she was, _is_?, his girlfriend. She loved him. Loves him. She really, really loved him.

_So did you._ Seb voice resonates in his ears and Eliot swallows. Seb, who made him  _feel_ when he thought he was nothing more than a hollow shell. Because Quentin was dead. Seb, who probably died with Fillory, even if he still hopes he made it out in time.

But now Quentin is here. On that horrible woolly rug at the foot of his bed. And the room is filled with a silence so tense, Eliot is almost afraid to break it. He doesn't even know if he can move, doesn't know if he  _wants to_ . Because what if this is just an illusion, a cruel joke that will end the moment they start  _believing_ it?

How long since he has appeared out of thin air? If you asked Eliot, he would say hours, but in truth, it's only been a few seconds. A few intense seconds, in which both his and Alice's head have spun with confused thoughts.

Then, Alice grasps his hand, tight. It almost hurts, so he knows it's real, it's not just a dream, and the looks that she gives him (her eyes wide open, her face white) tells him that it isn't an hallucination, either. At the realisation that Quentin is, in fact, truly there, they both bolt from the bed, quickly kneeling on the floor next to him.

Eliot can almost hear Alice's heart pounding against her chest, and he's sure she can hear his. Just as he is sure that there are questions she wants to ask him (like, for example, why the fuck his early Christmas present was a spell that could bring Quentin back. Not that he knows, of course, but she will ask him), but right now, they're sealing a silent agreement: Quentin first, everything else can fucking wait.

They both tentatively reach out, but as soon as their fingers brush against the fabric of Quentin's hoodie, a whimper leaves his lips and he curls up even more tightly. Eliot and Alice quickly withdraw their hands; Eliot feels as if something has burnt his fingertips.

_He doesn't want to be touched by you_ , says a spiteful little voice in the back of his head. He winces. Then, a cold hand lands on his forearm. His thought must have shown on his face, because when he lifts his gaze to Alice, she smiles reassuring and says, «He just popped into existence from the Underworld, El. Who knows what he has gone through...» Her voice wavers a little. «He flinched at me, too,» she adds, pained. Pained, but still trying to comfort him. «It's not you, El.» 

_It's not you._

It's funny, how grief over the loss of Quentin has changed them, their relationship. Only one year ago, she would have used this to hurt him, to dig deeper into his self-loathing. And now look at her,  _comforting him_ .

Eliot stiffly nods. His existential crisis can wait, the quivering, white-haired man on his bedroom's floor cannot. Inhaling a deep breath, he slowly scoots over towards Quentin, trying his best not to touch him. On the other side of the man cuddled up on the floor, Alice does the same. They are like two pillars, ready to take on their shoulders the weigh of whatever Quentin brought back with him.

«Q?» Alice murmurs, fingers hovering right over the white locks that fall on his face. «Quentin?»

It hurts, to see him like that; like an animal, caught in a trap, hurt and scared. The whimpers are the worst part of it all and they are heartbreaking. But Alice swallows and does what Eliot still can't do. «Quentin,» she repeats, her voice gentle but steady. «We know it's difficult right now, and we are very, very sorry. But you can't stay on the floor. Do you understand me?»

The sound of her voice seems to have a calming effect on him, so she keeps explaining, «Eliot and I will touch you now, okay? We are going to help you get off the floor and we'll take you to the bed and we'll help you get settled, is that okay?»

Hazel eyes peek out from under the curtain of white hair. This must be working, because Quentin's breathing is less frantic now, his shoulders slightly less tense. He still looks like a trapped animal, but in his eyes there is something that seems recognition as he takes in his surroundings.

Alice silently motions at Eliot to say something, anything, to help Quentin connect all the pieces.

Eliot opens his dry mouth, his tongue darting to lick his bottom lip, but the words won't come. He closes it and squeezes his eyes, swallowing hard. «Quentin?» the name exit his lips almost painfully, a hoarse whisper that feels like sawdust in his throat.  _Keep it together, asshole._ He takes a deep breath and tries again, «Quentin? It's me, it's Eliot... You are safe, Q. You are safe.» His voice is much clearer now, because he knows this is for Q, not for himself. 

Quentin relaxes almost imperceptibly, lowering his hands so that he can look around more easily.

«Are you ready, Q? We are going to touch you know, please don't be afraid,» Alice softly repeats.

«Alice?» His voice is a raspy murmur, the word a foreign presence on his lips. How long since he last  _spoke_ ? Since he last  _was_ ? He swallows, unaware of the thuds of Eliot's heart. Of course it would be Alice the one he'd recognise first, the one he'd reach for.

«I'm here, Q. It's me, you don't have to be afraid.» She smiles encouragingly.

Light eyelashes flutter on Quentin's pale cheek before his eyes turn to Eliot.

«El.» This time, it isn't a question. Eliot has to stop himself from cradling him in his arms, as he has done a million time, afraid of the reaction that would trigger.

«It's okay, you are alright,» he offers before slowly reaching towards him.

Alice takes the hint and, ever so gently, mirrors his movements, taking one of Quentin's hands in hers, ignoring the way he flinches at the touch, and putting her free hand right under his elbow to help him to his feet. Once standing, he sways, uncertain on his new, old feet.

They carry him towards Eliot's bed and then tuck him under the sheets, where he curls up again, trembling like a scared child. They stand looking at him for a long while, still incredulous about what has happened, not ready to leave just now.

Whatever has brought him back must have sucked all the energy out of him, because it only takes a few minutes for the quivers to subside and for his breathing to slow down. Asleep, Quentin looks younger, despite the (very odd) white hair. He looks... vulnerable, as well, and Alice and Eliot silently agree that even if they want to stay, to keep looking at him for fear he will vanish as quickly as he has arrived, it's better if they leave the room, before the urge to touch him, to take him into their arms to make sure  _he's real, he's here_ overcomes them. 

When the door is finally closed behind them (not before opening it at least half a dozen time to check that Quentin is still under the sheets, on the bed, asleep), they sit on the floor with their backs against the wood.

«What the fuck?» Eliot murmurs.

  
  


* * *

«Let me get this straight. You two slept on the floor because Quentin, _our Quentin_ , is in your room. Sleeping in your bed. After he _appeared_ out of thin air as motherfucking Dumbledore a result of some kind of spell that _fell from the sky_.» Margo is at the kitchen counter, a cup of steaming coffee in her hands and a look of total disbelief on her face.

«In short, yes,» flatly replies Eliot.

Alice lifts one blonde eyebrow and sips her coffee.

After setting down her cup on the counter, Margo brings one hand to her forehead, closes her eyes and briefly massages her temples. «I don't even know where to start,» she lowers her hand, her eyes now open, «to explain to you how appalled I am by the fact that two of the smartest people I know can sometime be _so_ _fucking stupid_.»

Both Eliot and Alice seem taken aback by her reaction. «Wh-»

Margo lifts one finger, silencing them. «After all the shit we've been through neither of you took a moment to _think_ before casting an unknown spell? That...» She waves towards Eliot room and shakes her head. «It could be anything. With our luck, it probably is some blood-thirsty, indestructible demon whose only ambition in life is to destroy everything it touches. Who will die this time, mh? Tell me, have you thought about that before you conjured up some unknown entity who wears the face of...» A trembling sighs leaves her her lips, her jaw stiffens, and to anyone, that would be a sign of her rage. But Eliot isn't just anyone and knows her too well to fall for that. «... our dead friend?»

Alice blinks, confused, «I don't think that's...» she stops when Eliot imperceptibly shakes his head before stepping forward and gently taking Margo's hand in his, pulling her in his arms. Then, he bends a little, just enough so that her hair brushes against his nose. She's so tiny and full of rage and courage, but even she has her limits, after all. The thought of having lost El to the Monster had almost broken her, then Quentin had died, then _everyone had almost died too, multiple times._ She has all rights to be distrustful.

«You're right, we probably should have thought it through,» he murmurs into her hair. Truth is, he didn't care and yeah, maybe a tiny, foolish part of him almost wished the spell would suck him into nothingness. «But we didn't, and now Quentin is here.» He nuzzles into her hair and he lowers his voice, so that it's barely audible. «It's Q. I am sure, Bambi. _It's him._ » What he really wants to say is that he would recognise him everywhere, that not even the mightiest demon could fool him because _he_ _knows_ every single line on his face, the smell of his skin, the way the corner of his lips twitches right before they stretch out into a smile. But he won't say that. He can't. «I know it is.»

Margo gasp, very lightly, then, «Jesus fucking Christ on a Quidditch broom, El,» her voice almost trembling.

Then his hands slide on her shoulder and he slightly moves away so that he can look her in the eyes when he says, «But...» He glances at Alice, «I must warn you, he is... different. I won't lie. I don't know where he was, what has happened these last months, but he is terrified and he... _he's changed.»_

«Changed as in... has grown a tail and a pair of shiny horns? Because if that's the case, I stand by my previous statement,» she half-sniffs.

Eliot's lips tremble a little before a watery laughter escapes them. «No tail, I swear.» God, how he loves her. Sometimes he forgets just how much he does. «I... _we_ were going to check up on him, wanna join?» he asks, almost hopefully. Because yes, he wants her to see that Q is really back, but he also needs her there. Sharing her strength with him.

Margo nods.

«Okay then. Let's see if he's,» _still there_ , a vicious little voice says at the back of his mind, «still sleeping.»

Alice checks her watch and lifts a eyebrow. «It's almost nine, I suppose he...» she looks bemused, as if she still isn't sure she's not dreaming. «Yeah, I guess we could check?» It sounds more like a question than a statement.

«Do you want to... go alone?» Eliot asks her, almost shyly. And once, she would have mocked him for it. She would have taken her rightful time and space with Quentin, _her boyfriend_. _Her Q._

But things are different, now. She still loves Q, of course she does. But it isn't _her_ Q anymore (part of her knows he has never been, not even at first). So she shakes her head, her lips a thin line. «Of course not, Eliot,» _don't be stupid,_ she barely holds back. She knows he will be hurt, even if she only means to say that this, having Quentin back, isn't just for her. «We should do this together, all of it,» she adds instead. «I mean, if this is what you want?» Doubt creeps into her voice. «The spell was your gift, after all,» she reminds him, but herself too. Santa chose Eliot as the recipient of this miraculous gift. Not her. Eliot.

He seems taken aback, as if he almost expected her to claim this moment as hers. «No, why would I... of course not, you are right. This...» he looks towards his room. «He's our Quentin, of course we should do this together.»

Alice finds herself smiling encouragingly at him, timidly extending her hand. It is weird, this new affection between them. Weird, but warm. And so he takes her hand, Margo tucked at his other side, and together they reach his room.

They stop right in front of the door, exchanging hesitant looks.

If someone would enter the loft right now, they would think those three were barely more than kids, holding hands and looking uncertain. In truth, they feel way younger than their age right now. Somehow lost in a way they haven't felt in a while. Doubt can do that to a person.

Will they really find a sleeping Quentin in Eliot's bed? Or was it just a dream? And if he's really there, will he... will he still be terrified, cowering away from their touch?

Alice puts her hand on the handle before turning to Eliot and Margo. «On my three, okay?»

The two of them nods and she bites her lower lip.

«One.»

Margo raises her wide eyes to Eliot.

«Two.»

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut.

«Three.»

The door opens slowly, as Alice is trying to be as noiseless as possible. They tiptoe into the room and they come to a halt after a few steps. Because here he is, nestled under the sheets. Long, white hair scattered over the pillows, such an odd contrast against the pine green bedding.

Margo's tilts her head up in a semi-circular movement, «You could have mentioned he came back as Gandalf the White,» she whispers.

Eliot blinks at her, trying to remember if Gandalf was the one who was friend with Orlando Bloom or the other one, the bad one. At times he almost forgets she is such a nerd.

«I forgot.»

«You _forgot_.» Her tone is flat, yet conveys her disbelief.

Eliot rolls his eyes a little. «Look, he was terrified and I wouldn't be surprised if he's traumatised by whatever has brought him back, the hair is just...» He flaps one hand vaguely in the air. «You know, when your,» _your what, Eliot? Your what?,_ «friend comes back from the dead, you tend to overlook such details.»

Margo gives him a sharp look but decides not to comment on that, because, seriously... Quentin is here, asleep and probably even more fucked up than he was when he died, but he is _here._

«Okay, who is gonna wake up him up?» she says instead, looking at the other two (and yet again deciding not to comment on the fact that they're still holding hands. When the fuck did they become bff?)

Eliot doesn't tell her that he's afraid of Quentin's reaction to his touch, nor that he thinks that having Quentin looking at him terrified would probably kill him for good. So, he aims for a more diplomatic reply, «We're all here, we should just... do it together.» He shrugs, but he doesn't miss the way her eyebrow raises.

Ever so slowly, they move closer to the side of the bed where Quentin's white head appears from under the duvet.

He looks peaceful in his sleep, so different from the panicking mess squirming on the floor just hours ago. His lips are curled in a pout that makes him look younger and defenceless. He sighs, softly, and Eliot's knees almost buckle at the sound of it.

Without thinking, Margo reaches out to gently brush Quentin's hair out of his face. Which, in retrospect, is probably not the best of ideas, because Quentin wakes with a start and quickly curls up on himself, disoriented, and brings hands tight around his head.

Eliot feels sick. He wants to wrap him in the safety of his arms, to comfort him, to tell him that everything is okay, but everything is obviously not okay and Quentin looks like a scared, battered puppy. For the first time in twelve hours, Eliot thinks he should have burned Santa's gift. Because suffering, he is used to, but to cause someone else, someone he deeply cares about, to suffer like this? He feels selfish: he has done this to Quentin just to soothe his broken heart. No, he doesn't _feel_ selfish. He is.

_I taint everything I touch_ .

It feels like a punch in the stomach. He did this.

«You should try and speak to him, El.» Alice's voice penetrates the curtain of anguish in which he is now wrapped.

Eliot blinks before shaking his head. «No, I... You should try,» he says, trying to sound nonchalant yet looking away. «He's...»  _What? What is he, mh? Her boyfriend? Her friend? Your friend? What do you want, Eliot? How much are you willing to risk?_

«Grow a clit, Waugh,» Margo half-growls at his side. «If what you said is true, this is your responsibility. You can wallow a little in your self-loathing after you've dealt with this, if you still want to, ok?» She questioningly raises a eyebrow.

Alice huffs, almost amused. «You should really do this. It's... He...» She squeezes his hand. «It's going to be fine, we're not going away, we'll just...» 

She looks at Margo, who nods and disentangle from Eliot. «We're just stepping back a little, give him some space.» With that, she retreats to the feet of the bed, followed by Alice. 

Eliot feels panic surging inside of him. 

_Know that when I'm braver..._

He takes one step towards the bed, his knees brushing against the sheet that is now crumpled up in the space between Quentin's knees and elbows. Slowly, ever so slowly as not to scare him further, Eliot crouches down, hands resting just inches from Quentin's face hidden behind his forearms.

Eliot pauses for a moment, uncertain on what he should to quickly glancing at Alice and Margo. They both nod, encouragingly, but Eliot has the feeling they're as much at a loss as he is. How is he supposed to reach Quentin beyond his shell-shock state?

… _it's 'cause I've learned it from you._

«Hey...» He lets out a trembling sigh. «Hon-» Eliot bites his tongue and feel his ears flushing a little. «Hi, Q.»

Timid, alert hazel eyes peek out from behind the forearms Quentin still holds in front of his face. «El?»

Eliot swallows, his heart pounding against his chest.

_Braver. I can be that. Braver. For both of us, if you need me to._


	2. Part II

Eliot spends the best part of an hour sitting on the floor, close enough to feel Quentin's breathing slowing down, to see his eyes nervously taking in the surroundings, but not quite touching him. He murmurs softly, the words barely audible from a distance. It feels like he's taming a trapped wild animal and the frustration raises by the minute.

At some point, he hears Margo mumbling about _Mama_ having an appointment, then steps moving away, a door opening and closing. Alice is still there with him, sitting with her back propped up against the wall. Eliot doesn't need to look at her to feel her mild discomfort. She doesn't know what to do with herself, doesn't know how to help, doesn't even know if she should help. Should she go? He doesn't want her to.

When he's about to lose hope, his fingers trembling with all the emotions that whirl in his body, Quentin's lips part and move as if he's saying something.

«Q,» _baby,_ his mind is begging him to say, «I can't hear you, you need to speak up a little, okay?» he coos, softly. He knows Alice is there, watching him, and he feels a little uncomfortable allowing her to see _this._ This part of him that he has never let anyone see. This _weakness_ , this deep well of caring and loving he has unsuccessfully tried to smother since childhood. He is slightly uncomfortable, but he also doesn't really care any more? He is tired and he only wants Q to be... well, Q. He wants to see his smile and to hear his snarky remarks and to feel his soft hair under his fingertips. And he knows Alice understands all of that and that she wouldn't use it to mock or to hurt ahim. Not any more, at least.

«I think...» replies Quentin with a hoarse voice, «I think I'm hungry.»

Laughters bubble up Eliot's throat, making his lips tremble. Oh god, hours spent trying to coo Quentin into producing something more than a few monosyllabic words and all he had to do was waiting for him to be hungry! «Of course you are, I should have brought you something more than water, how ill-mannered of me.» He hopes his voice is nonchalant enough. «I'll just go fix you something, maybe some scrambled eggs and a nice sesame bagel with smoked salmon, what to you say?» As he speaks, his voice gentle and encouraging, he starts to stand up.

A hand bolts to halt him, grabbing his forearm.

«Please don't go.» Quentin's chirping voice reaches him, freezing his body mid movement.

Eliot's hazel eyes darts from Quentin's fingers, tight around his dark blue shirt, to Alice, a silent request for help in his gaze.

«Stay with him, I'll go get something.» As she stiffly raises to her feet, Eliot can see the anguish on her features, and he hates himself for it. He doesn't want her to hurt, he doesn't want to be the one causing her this pain. But... he swallows, his eyes slowly moving to the very pale, wide-eyed man curled on his bed. No matter how much he has grown to love Alice, no matter how close they now are, he just can't deny Quentin. Not now. Probably not ever. «I'm sure I saw some Honey Pops in the kitchen,» she sheepishly adds, as if this isn't an awkward mess.

When she briefly looks at him, Eliot nods, mouthing a silent _thank you_ from his half-kneeling position, and he's rewarded by a tentative smile.

They're good. They can still be good, or so he hopes, and his heart warms a little.

«Alice?» Two pair of eyes flit to the source of the feeble peep. «Will you...» his voice trails off, uncertain. «Uhm, will you come back?»

Eliot's heart makes a half pirouette in his chest and the little sparkle of warmth grows stronger. Something has changed. He doesn't know why or when it happened, not exactly, because he has been murmuring about everything and anything for hours, his frustration slowly growing at the lack of reactions, but now he feels the shift in Quentin. Quentin. _His_ Quentin. Slowly coming back from wherever the fuck he has been hiding.

«I-» Alice seems just as astonished as he is. And maybe a little hopeful – which, really, could he blame her? Her boyfriend _(her_ boyfriend, for fuck's sake!) has only said her name once since coming back from the dead, and then he whimpered as a trapped animal when she tried to go near him in the morning, so yeah, no, he doesn't blame her for holding on to every little thing. He's doing the same, after all. «Of course I'll come back, Q,» she answers, softly, her hand on the handle.

«Uh, okay.» Quentin nods, his white-hair lightly fluttering over his eyes and his stance seems to relax. «Okay, then. I-» Hesitant eyes peeks at her before moving back to Eliot.

«I'll stay here with you,» he reassures him, his heart now pounding against his ribs. _I'm never leaving. Never again._ He swallows the words, not knowing what to do with them.

«Mh.» The fingers around Eliot's forearm tighten their grasp. «Yeah. Yeah, it sounds... yeah.»

Eliot can feel his lips curl of their own volition and he has to clear his throat before speaking again, just as Alice closes the door behind her to get the goddamned Honey Pops. «Q, do you think I could...» He moves his weight from one knee to the other, muscles slightly trembling. «Do you think I could maybe sit on the bed?» he asks, emboldened by the recent developments. «It's just that the floor isn't that comfortable,» he quickly adds when Quentin's eyes widens at the request, his fingers loosening around his arm. Is it too much, too soon?

But Quentin wordlessly scoots over a little towards the middle of the king-size bed, so Eliot gathers that maybe it was a reasonable request, after all. Not too much. Not too soon. Just... a friend asking to sit on a comfortable mattress instead of a cold marble floor.

With his heart pounding in his ears, Eliot slowly manoeuvres his stiff body on the bed, stretching his long legs over the soft sheets. Should he... touch Quentin? Is he allowed to do so? God, he wants to. He wants to cradle him in his arms and run his finger through his weird, white hair, nuzzling it and savouring its scent. He wants to feel his body under his fingertips, to check every single inch just to make sure that Quentin, _their Q_ , is really there. Yet, he forces himself to keep his hands on his lap because, seriously?, this is all so fucking confusing and he _doesn't know_ what is allowed and what isn't. Because yeah, this might be their Quentin, but he also isn't. And he doesn't want to scare the not-their-Quentin away, not until their Quentin is strong enough to... come back? Shit, this is all so confusing, and Eliot has never been a huge fan of philosophical inner monologues.

Eliot's eyes flutters closed, his lashes dark against his pale cheeks, and a sigh escapes his lips.

At times, he misses the simpler days, even though he was shallower and number. Or maybe _because_ he was shallower and number. Feelings are... complicated and painful. It may sound like a very simplistic way to put it, but may he be damned if it isn't accurate.

A rustle at his side breaks into the fog of his thoughts and brings him back to the moment, to the form moving under the blankets as if, as if...

His eyes open quickly and his breath catches in his throat as the white-haired head presses against his arm. Ever so slowly, Eliot's gaze moves down on the curled up form. Should he...?

Damn yeah he should.

He lifts his arm, just enough to give Quentin room to move and snuggle up against him, face on his lap. When the slightly shivering ball of everything that is Quentin finally settles, a content sigh reaches Eliot, making his heart skip a beat or two. His arm is still suspended just a few inches above the other man and maybe he should, no, maybe he _could_ just lower it? Just a little, just to...

Breathing out, Eliot does just that. Slowly. Until his arm is brushing against Quentin's shoulder and his finger are so, so close to his hair. He quickly glances at the door, uncertain, before finally lowering his arm completely. Quentin tenses for a fraction of a second before relaxing under his touch, which encourages Eliot to go even further and start threading his finger through the white hair, careful as not to make any sudden movement. He has now stopped murmuring, his mouth parched, but his lips can't old back a small, hoping smile.

  
  


* * *

The scene that greets Alice when she steps back in Eliot's room is more than what she expected and it's... well, it makes her heart ache in all kinds of ways.

Eliot has left his place on the floor and has climbed on the bed, next to Quentin, who is now curled up at his side, asleep as Eliot tenderly pets his hair, the slow movement of his hand the only sign that he's still awake. God, how long since the last time she has seen such a scene? Once, it was a daily occurrence.

_Eliot absent-mindedly stroking Quentin's hair as the latter blabbered about everything and anything._

_Quentin laid down on the couch of the Cottage's living room, his head on Eliot's lap._

_Eliot's fingers casually brushing Quentin's nape and Quentin's lips relaxing into a smile._

She had known they were in love way before they realised that themselves. Mostly, because they were idiots. God, she loves them both, but they truly were idiots back then. And they had hurt her, so she wasn't exactly going to explain them what was obvious to everyone. Then things had grown more and more complicated.

And then... and then...

And then Quentin had died, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts. Yeah, cheesy, but not wrong. Their broken hearts was what brought them closer than ever. Which is why the scene that plays in front of her is making her heart ache in a soft, tender way.

She loves Quentin, she does, but... she loves Eliot, too. Not in the same way, no, but with the same intensity, maybe? If there is one good thing she has learnt from her debauched parents, is that love comes in many forms. So yeah, fuck social norms.

She doesn't resent Eliot for being the recipient of this amazing yet fucked up gift, nor for being the one whose presence is helping Quentin come back to them. She isn't jealous, she doesn't want to throw a tantrum because her shell shocked boyfriend (if he even is her boyfriend... death tends to undo this kind of stuff, doesn't it?) seems to find comfort in another man instead of her. It hurts a little, yes, and she wishes she could be more, give more to Q, especially right now, but on the other hand she feels a warmth crawling inside her chest at the sight of his expression, relaxed in his slumber, and of the soft smile playing on Eliot's lips.

«Hey,» Eliot murmurs, eyes slowly opening.

«Hey.» As she answers, she lifts one hand, shaking the box of cereals she's holding. «I had to hunt these down, it took me almost ten minutes to realise they were in Kady's room. Apparently she woke up early this morning craving Honey Pops and never bothered to return the box to the kitchen.»

Eliot huffed, amused. «That girl is a badass and she's probably going to be High Queen of the fucking Hedges, but she would drown in her own garbage if no one cleaned after her.»

Alice offers him a bashful smile before nibbling her bottom lip, eyes darting around the room. «I'll just let the box...» Her gaze lands on the dresser, «here, so he can have some when he wakes up.»

«Mhmh,» Eliot hums in agreement, eyes already fluttering closed again, fingers still threading through Quentin's hair.

But as she reaches for the door, her hand already on the handle, he cracks one eye open. «Where are you going?» he asks. Has his voice always been this hoarse? It sounds loaded with emotions, but Alice doesn't know if it's her place to ask, to dig further...

She clears her throat, «I thought I could...» she trails off, turning to look at Eliot, whose eyes are now open again, even if just a slit. «I have work to do anyway, so...» She shrugs.

«You don't have to go, you know,» he says, softer now, but she can still feel the emotions underneath his tone.

It's strange, the way things change. Not too long ago, Eliot's only externalised feelings would have been anger, lust, frustration. But this is different. So different, in fact, that her heart aches a little more, in the sweetest way.

Alice opens her mouth, then closes it. There's so much she could say, but she doesn't know where to start.

_This isn't for me, not anymore._

_This wasn't my gift, El. It must say something about me if I got rings to fix my fingers and you got the damn enchantment to bring back Q._

_This is just awkward and kinda painful._

Nibbling at her lips, she decides to go for a shrug instead.

«There's still room on the bed,» Eliot nonchalantly offers. «And he asked about you before dozing off, it would be nice if we were both here when he wakes up.» His tone is casual, but there's no way this is easier for him than it is for her. He loves Q. He truly does. Sometimes, even _before,_ she worried he might love him more than she did and now... she is no longer sure her concern was unfounded. Part of her actually wants to go back to work, to dig into the Order's books and quench her thirst for knowledge, to take on new challenges... what if that part is stronger than the one that loves Quentin?, she thinks, guilt surging in her stomach.

Finally, she replies, «I don't know, El, I-» She shrugs.

«Look, I know this mustn't be easy for you,» Eliot's voice is hushed, tying not to wake the man curled up against him, «I think it's safe to say it isn't easy for anyone. But you have to know that I'm just trying to do what's best for Q, to give him something to hold on to as he comes back to us. I'm not,» he pauses for a moment, his eyes moving to the white hair scattered on a still too pale face, «I'm not trying to take your place or anything like that.» He keeps his gaze down. «When Q is himself again, I'll just-» As he swallows, plainly fighting his instincts in an attempt to be open, Alice feels that ache again, that warmth. She knows how difficult it is for him to _talk_. Well, not to talk in general, but to _really talk_. About feelings. «I don't know, I think... No, I know I need to tell him how I feel, but then I won't interfere. I'm just glad he's back.» _Not dead_ , the words hover over them, unsaid.

His fingers never stops moving in Quentin's hair.

«It was your gift, El,» it's all she can say.

«You were there when I got it,» Eliot points out.

«True, but that doesn't mean-»

«Look, it isn't that big of a deal,» and there it was, that nonchalant tone again. As if he could fool her (or anyone, really. Because seriously, who would be surprised to discover that the mighty Eliot Waugh is in love with the man he has been glued to since day one? Exactly: no one.). «Can we just focus on the task at hand for now? He obviously needs our presence, comfort, I don't know. He needs us. Will you just sit on the damn bed?» Ah yes, fake annoyance. God, he's almost cute in his attempts to keep up his façade.

Alice rolls her eyes and crosses the room, slipping out of her shoes before carefully climbing on the bed, on the other side of Quentin.

«See, it wasn't that difficult.»

«It wasn't,» she acknowledges, her hand resting over his. «It doesn't have to be.»

Hazel eyes peers out from behind dark lashes, searching her face for something they must find, because after a few seconds Eliot's lips relax in a soft smile.

«Maybe it doesn't.»

  
  


* * *

Quentin's recovery is slow, frustratingly so, but steady. It takes him almost a week to finally be back on his feet (quite literally so) and another few days for the fear to succumb; when it finally does, and the words start feeling easier on his tongue, Quentin can't even remember _what_ has happened to him, what (quite obviously) traumatised him.

_«It's, uhm, it's a blur, I'm sorry. I just... I don't remember much, just... I think it was dark, very dark, and someone, uhm, screamed? I think... mh, I think it might have been me?_ »  _His hand absent-mindedly moving to tangle in his now white as snow hair._

Then another week before he has the courage to leave the room, not quite hiding behind Eliot as they step into the living room where Julia is waiting for them, her eyes watery and her lips trembling. He only flinches a little when she throws herself at his neck, sobbing and hoarsely telling him to _never, ever dare doing something so stupid again, do you hear me, Makepeace? Don't you dare._

Eliot has to literally drag her away before she completely suffocates the man, quietly taking her fists pounding on his chest as he circles her small form in a somewhat comforting embrace.

When Margo finally comes back from New Fillory, ten day after that, Quentin is almost completely back to his old self. Well, except for the white hair and an inexplicable, recurring craving for raspberry-chocolate ice cream. AS Margo hugs him so tight he can barely breathe, murmuring something in his ear so that no one else can hear what she's saying, a small smile plays on his lips and Eliot is sure he can feel his heart exploding into a thousand fireworks.

Meeting the others is way less emotional, but it's still good for Quentin, or so Eliot and Alice murmurs to themselves late at night, when they share a cup of (very much spiked) tea on the large couch, catching up on the day's improvements and failures (because as much as they'd like to only focus on the first, the latter still happen from time to time. Like when Josh has sneaked up on a half-asleep Quentin, scaring the shit out of him, and Eliot has then spent one hour on the floor, Quentin cradled in his arms).

Now that Alice has officially accepted her job at the Library, she can't be around much, so this is their new night ritual: after Quentin goes to bed (still in Eliot's room, which is... well, let's just say the couch stops being comfortable after almost four weeks of being awakened at all times by Kady and her fucking Hedges storming into the apartment and then storming off a few minutes later) they chat a little about Alice's work, Kady's growing empire, Fillory's never ending drama, but mostly... Quentin.

They never talk about the future, about what they'll do once he's completely recovered, about what comes next.

Eliot hasn't talked to Quentin yet, he feels it's still too soon, while Alice insists he _ovaries up, as Margo would say_ (and she does look very satisfied when she tells him that). Not that she has broached the topic, either, but he graciously avoids pointing that out. For now.

And just like that, days roll into weeks as they ease into this new routine of theirs, quite never acknowledging that it can't be permanent, that things will need to change, sooner rather than later. Eliot can't keep sleeping on the couch and he will become restless if he doesn't find something to do with himself, everyone knows that (especially Margo, who keeps sending him rabbits to not-so-casually let him know she'd like to have him in New Fillory, if not as High King, at least as counsellor to the current High King. _Need help building New Fillory. This thing is harder than a dick, El. Seriously, stop ignoring me. I need a break and a warm bath. ELIOT!_ ). And really, Kady's apartment is huge and magnificent, but now that it's the Hedge witches headquarters it's too crowded. And anyway, they're pushing 30, as much as the thought horrifies Eliot; it's time they take another step into adulthood. Ugh. As if depth of character and responsibilities aren't punishment enough for not dying young (he only makes this joke once, because Alice threatens to do unspeakable things to his dick – not in a fun way – if he dares joke about dying young again. She might have a point, he concedes).

And then there's Quentin. Who will want to resume his life, at some point. Find a job. Move out. Have... No, they're not talking about that. Not now, with the weariness of the day on their shoulders and the spiked tea getting cold in their hands. The clock might be ticking, but they can afford another night of sleep, maybe another few days before actually doing something about it.

«I'll talk to him, I swear. When he's ready,» Eliot repeats (not for the first time this week).

Alice replies with a non-committal _mhmh_ before sipping her tea, an eyebrow lifted eloquently.

«Oh, don't look at me like that,» he snorts. «Let me have this for a little longer.»

«I didn't say a word.» She smiles into her cup before adding, in a more serious tone, «And really, who am I to judge? I have your same qualms, you know perfectly well.» She sighs. «But we both know that this...» She gestures vaguely at their surroundings.

«I know.» Eliot frowns, deep in thought. «I know.»

Alice puts her hand on his, giving as much comfort as she takes. «We can do that tomorrow,» she reassures him (not for the first time this week).

«Yeah, tomorrow sounds good,» Eliot replies (not for the first time this week), before his lips curve into a soft smile.

It's nice, knowing there is a tomorrow with Quentin in it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedbacks are very much welcome, but in case you want say hi, chat or whatever, look me up on tumblr or twitter (cabiriaminerva) :)


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